


Minute by Minute, That's How We Did It

by AlannaofRoses



Series: Breaking News: I Love You [4]
Category: Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Alternate POVs, Angst, F/F, F/M, Fluff, M/M, One Shot Collection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:07:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27157708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlannaofRoses/pseuds/AlannaofRoses
Summary: Davey Jacobs told the story of a newspaper strike, finding love, and growing up in New York City. But there were others who took the same journey, and they also deserve to have their stories told.A series of one-shots set in the Breaking News 'verse that explore alternate POV's of the various events.
Relationships: David Jacobs/Jack Kelly, Sarah Jacobs/Katherine Plumber Pulitzer, Spot Conlon/Racetrack Higgins
Series: Breaking News: I Love You [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1908613
Comments: 26
Kudos: 28





	1. Headline Heart Chapter 1: Jack POV

**Author's Note:**

> The one sad part about writing from a single POV is missing the moments that character doesn't get to see. This one-shot collection will try and fix that for the Breaking News 'verse. I highy suggest reading the rest of the series first, as many of these will not make sense out of context. There is no set order to these, and unless noted, they will not connect to one another. All tags for the other stories may apply. 
> 
> Marked as complete as each chapter can stand alone.

“Papes for the Newsies! Line up!”

Jack Kelly ambles his way to the front of the line as usual, his seconds, Racetrack Higgins and Crutchie Morris, falling in behind him as usual. He pokes fun at the Weasel as usual, snatching his usual hundred papes and moving aside. It’s a perfectly usual day in Newsie Square.

Sitting on one of the piles of papes that will go out with the wagons in a few minutes, he opens his top paper and scans for a headline of more use than the abysmal trolley strike. ‘Baby born with two heads’ is on the third page. Huh. Could be interesting.

Crutchie maneuvers over to him, propping his bad leg up as he too opens a pape for perusal. Race is already leaning against the wagon nearby, his ever-present cigar twitching in his cheek. There’s a new kid at the stall now, Wiesel giving him a sneer as he asks for his papers, charming as usual.

New kid moves off, Jack losing interest almost immediately as Albert steps up to the stall. New kid’ll survive or he won’t, and if he really wants to be a Newsie in Manhattan, he’ll find his way to Jack eventually.

Except suddenly new kid spins around. “I’m sorry, excuse me!”

The square goes silent, and even Jack looks up.

“I paid for twenty but you gave me nineteen.” New kid explains, gulping as he finds himself the center of attention.

Jack’s impressed despite himself. New kid’s got a mouth, challenging Wiesel like that. Especially because he’s clearly shaking in his clean, pressed clothes. Seriously, who wears a tie to sell papes?

Wiesel snarls at the kid and his baby brother, who Jack just then notices peeking out from behind new kid’s back, and oh no. Jack groans softly, and Crutchie gives him a sympathetic, knowing look before Jack stands and moves to the new kid, snatching the papes from his trembling hand and counting them with a practiced ease.

Wiesel looms over the new kid, and despite his fear he’s managing to stand his ground, and Jack is in so, so much trouble.

“Whoa!” Jack spins, holding up the papes, and yup, that’s his own dumb self speaking. “New kid’s right, Weasel. You gave him nineteen.”

New kid relaxes as soon as Weasel rounds on Jack. His deep brown eyes, the color of the Santa Fe mountains that Jack’s painted a hundred times, lock on Jack’s own.

And Jack’s mouth is still moving. “Hey, I’m sure it’s an honest mistake, on account of Oscar can’t count to twenty with his shoes on.”

Oscar lunges for him ineffectually, the Newsies laughing at the taunt. Wiesel shoves another pape at the new kid with a final sneer, and Jack hands him back the rest more gently.

Now is the time to walk away. It’s time to walk away, Jack. Walk away!

He ignores his brain screaming at him and slaps another coin down on the collection box. “Hey!” He tells Wiesel. “Give the new kid fifty more papes.”

What the hell is he doing?

New kid seems to be thinking the same thing. “I don’t want more papes.”

Well, that’s just insulting. “What kinda Newsie don’t want more papes?” Jack asks him seriously.

“I’m no charity case.” New kid’s mouth is gonna get him in trouble. “I don’t even know you.”

He brushes past Jack, clearly intent on going it alone, and Jack’s almost ready to let him, except…

“His name’s Jack!” New kid’s kid brother says, waving a hand at Jack proudly.

Damn he’s cute. Almost as cute as Racer had been at that age, all limbs and eyes and that sweetheart smile. Jack feels that painful tug in his chest again. Whatever had driven New Kid to the Newsies, Jack understood family.

Crutchie’s talking him up to New Kid, Kid Brother wandering over to listen in.

Jack hesitates only a moment before following. “How old is you, kid?”

“I’m ten!” Kid Brother says proudly. Then he shrugs. “Almost.”

Not quite as young as Jack himself had been his first day on the streets, but still far too young for this life. It’ll be a stretch, feeding two more mouths over the winter, but maybe if he can give these two a head start they won’t starve before spring. He laughs kindly, trying to hide the clench in his gut. “Well,” he tells the kid, “if anybody asks, youse seven.”

Kid Brother nods, listening with wide eyes.

“Younger sells more papes,” Jack explains, “and if we’re going to be selling partners…”

“Who said we want a partner?”

Does New Kid ever shut up? Jack idly thought about kissing that pretty mouth speechless and couldn’t deny the image was rather enjoyable. Which was rather presumptuous, considering he didn’t even know if New Kid swung that way. Lots of the Newsies did, but then New Kid seemed like one of the prim and proper types.

Crutchie’s looking at New Kid in disbelief, but Jack can see the smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. “Uh, selling with Jack is the chance of a lifetime. You learn from him, you learn from the best.”

Which is completely true, so there’s absolutely no need for the wink Crutchie gives Jack as he finishes. Race is sniggering behind his stack of papes. Sometimes Jack wishes his friends couldn’t read him quite so well.

New kid’s shoulders drop, and Jack’s insides do a little cheer. He’s got a selling partner. Or two, actually. Kid Brother’ll make a great front with a couple pointers.

“If he’s the best, what’s he need with me?” New Kid asks.

Time to soothe his pride, make him think this is for Jack’s benefit alone. “Cause you got a little brudder and I don’t. With that pus we could easily sell a thousand papes a week!” He turns back to Kid Brother. “Hey, look sad, kid.”

Damn this kid is a natural.

“We’re gonna make millions!” Jack crows, laughing.

New Kid is smiling despite himself. It’s doing funny things to Jack’s chest.

Thankfully, Kid Brother breaks the tension. “This is my brother David. I’m Les.”

“Hey, nice to meet you Davey.” Jack barely even notices the nickname as it slips out. He names all his boys, letting them choose their new life without any strings attached. “My two bits come off the top, we split everything else seventy-thirty, alright?”

Davey opens his mouth, but he can’t quite seem to decide how to start.

It’s Les who jumps in again. “Fifty-fifty. You wouldn’t try to pull a fast one on a little kid?”

Oh, these boys are gonna fit right in. Jack tries to keep the fond smile from taking over his face. “Sixty-forty. And that is my final offer.” He tells Les firmly. New kids usually take a few days to move all their papes, and Jack can’t afford to eat anything they don’t sell tonight. Smalls desperately needs new shoes, and Jack’s been saving for weeks. He’ll make sure they get enough for room and board, but he can’t give them any more charity than he’s already committed to.

Les looks at Davey uncertainly, and the older boy weighs his options.

Jack finds himself holding his breath, watching those dark eyes as Davey calculates the offer.

When he shrugs and nods, Jack relaxes.

“Deal!” Les seals it.

Jack spits on his palm and offers it to Les, the kid copying him without a second thought.

“That’s disgusting!” Davey protests.

Jack just grins. He’ll make Newsies of these kids yet. “That’s just business.”


	2. Headline Heart Chapter 9: Esther POV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Esther contemplates Jack Kelly as she helps him recover from the effects of the strike.

Dip, swish, scrub, dip, shake, hang.

Esther tries to forget the blossoming bruise on David’s face, the way Les had whimpered when she had checked his injured arm.

Dip, swish, scrub, dip, shake, hang.

She’s so, so proud of her boys. But she’s terrified too. Her little Les, too young to be out on the streets, facing such dangers from those who should protect them. Her sweet David, so kind-hearted, so willing to put himself in harms way to defend those who needed his help.

Dip, swish, scrub, dip, shake, hang.

Jack Kelly. The Newsie leader that had stolen his way into both her boy’s hearts. Just a child himself, peering up at her window, far too thin and far too young to be bearing the burdens he carried.

Dip, swish

“Ma!” The door to the roof banged open, Les charging up the stairs with all the energy a nine-year-old possessed, heedless of the sling still holding his arm. “Davey needs ya! It’s Jack!”

Esther dropped the shirt she’d been working on into the water and followed her youngest back into the apartment, her mind racing. She was about to meet the famous Jack Kelly, the boy who’d swept two of her children off into the adventure of a lifetime. And considering the state of her children when they had stumbled into their home yesterday, she had no idea how injured Jack might be.

When they reach the bedroom, Jack is already curled on his side, David leaning over him. There is the most achingly tender expression on David’s face as he comforts Jack, and Esther feels a piece of the puzzle snap into place.

“Oh Jack, sweetheart.” She says, kneeling next to the bed. “Let’s get you fixed up.”

Jack’s dark eyes meet hers.

In that moment, an understanding passes between them that Esther won’t fully absorb until later.

“It’s his ribs, mama.” David says quietly, helping Jack sit upright so Esther can examine him. “I think there’s at least one broken.”

Jack hisses sharply as she presses against the bruised skin of his chest, and Esther nods. “I think you’re right. Les, go get my medicine basket, please.”

David has Jack practically on his lap, holding the other boy steady as Esther finishes checking him over. Esther doesn’t miss the trusting way Jack leans against her son. She’s seen a lot of kids from the streets, how they flinch at casual touch from strangers, how their eyes watch everything around them with the suspicion of someone who has been hurt before. Jack’s been hurt before, the scars clear on his torso and back, but somehow he’s decided that her son is safe.

Esther wraps his ribs tightly, trying to cause him as little pain as possible. Jack’s practically unconscious when she finishes, David guiding him down to the pillow gently.

“Sleep, Jackie.” David whispers, one hand stroking Jack’s dark curls, and Esther has to duck out of sight before David can see the tears in her eyes.

She’d suspected. Of course she had. Even little Les had shown an interest in girls, but her sweet David had never shown an interest in any of the girls who had tried to catch his attention. There would never be any easy road for her baby, would there. Poor, Jewish, immigrant, gay.

She hoped this Jack Kelly was worthy of her son.

It isn’t long until she understands what had passed between them that day, Jack hurt and trusting in her house.

Esther may never get to place David’s hand in Jack’s, but she placed David’s heart there a long time ago.


	3. Headline Heart Chapter 8: Race POV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the strike goes horribly wrong, Race can't find his big brother. So he goes to the only other person who can make him feel better.

Race leans against the wall heavily, closing his good eye. Everything aches, and after hours of offering comfort and care to the other boys Race wants nothing more than Jack’s arms around him. He’s suddenly jealous of Les, sleeping carefree in his big brother’s lap. “That’s everyone accounted for ‘cept Jack and Crutchie.”

Davey looks up. “Snyder and the Delanceys got Crutchie.” He tells them sadly. “I couldn’t… I couldn’t reach him in time.”

Albert swears loudly.

Race can feel himself shaking, the room spinning around him. “Crutchie got taken to the Refuge?”

Davey nods. “I’m sorry, Race.”

Albert reaches for him, but Race has to know. “Did Jack see it?”

He knows the answer, Davey’s face giving it away before the other boy even opens his mouth. “Yeah, he saw it.”

Race barely stops himself from wailing.

Albert pulls him close, offering what comfort he can. “We’ll find him, Racetrack. He’ll be okay.”

He doesn’t understand, though. No one does, not really. They know the Refuge haunts Jack and Race, they know its an awful, evil place, but neither Jack nor Race has ever been able to really talk about what had happened there.

Albert and Davey are still talking, and Race dimly registers that Davey has taken Les home for the night. There’s a restlessness itching under his skin. It’s a bad idea. Race is acting leader. Snyder is prowling the streets. He can only see out of one eye. It’s a long way to Brooklyn.

Race stands, and Albert gives him a knowing, helpless look.

“Race…”

“M’sorry, Al. I can’t…”

“I know. Be careful, okay? We can’t afford to lose you too.”

“If you see Jack…”

“I know. Get outta here. Come back soon.”

Jack had named him Racetrack for his old haunt at Sheepshead, but its an accurate moniker in more ways than one. His long legs make quick work of the miles, eating up the distance to the Brooklyn Bridge almost before he’s realized it.

One of Spot’s boys gives a shout as he crosses into their territory, but Race doesn’t slow. It’s not polite to ignore Spot’s boys, but they all know the penalty for laying a hand on Race.

He’s gasping for breath by the time he makes it to the Brooklyn Lodging House, his body aching from the bull’s beating. The frantic edge of his energy is gone, though, and that’s what matters. It’s the middle of the day, but Race knows he won’t have to wait for Spot long. The King of Brooklyn has eyes and ears everywhere, and no one sets foot in his turf without him hearing about it.

Sure enough, less than ten minutes later, Race hears heavy footfalls.

“Racetrack.” Spot growls. “I already told Kelly…”

His voice cuts off abruptly as Race turns around, Spot face going white as he sees the damage.

He hurries forward, one hand coming up to hover near Race’s swollen eye. “Racer,” there’s fear lacing his voice, “what happened? Who did this?”

The tenderness is too much after the day Race has had. “Spottie. Spottie, why didn’t you come?” He begs, hating the crack in his voice.

Spots face goes from confusion to horror. “Pulitzer?”

Race nods, biting his lip to keep from sobbing in the street. Spot takes his arm – gently – and leads him into the house, tugging him along to Spot’s corner of the bunkroom, sectioned off with a curtain from the rest of the beds. He sits Race down, dipping a cloth in a basin of cool water. He begins to methodically clean Race’s hands of dirt and blood, a calm, steady presence as Race fought for control.

“What happened, Racer?”

“We were alone. Just Manhattan. Jack and Davey, they knew we couldn’t back down, but they was just as scared as any of us. It almost seemed to be workin’, at first. And then…”

Spot’s hand tightened on his. “Breathe.”

“…and then the bulls showed up. Dozens of ‘em. And Snyder. An’ Jack was tellin’ us to run, and the littles were screaming, an’ Elmer wasn’t moving…” He sobbed.

Spot abandoned the cloth and sat down, pulling Race in.

“…I left ‘em, Spottie. I picked up Smalls and grabbed as many of the littles as I could an’ I left ‘em there, an’ they dragged Crutchie off to the Refuge and Jack…”

“Racer…”

“What if he’s dead, Spot?” Race wailed.

Spot shook him gently. “Hey. Hey! You listen ta me, Racetrack. Jack Kelly is a stubborn bastard, ya hear? Wherever he is, he’s gonna find his way back ta ya. Okay?”

“How can you be sure?”

Spot snorted, pulling Race into his lap until the taller boy was tucked under his chin, wrapped in his strong arms. “Cause whatever else I could say about Kelly, he loves ya ta death, Racer. ‘S about the only thing he an’ I agree on.”

“I love ya too, Spottie.”

Spot kisses the top of his head. “I’m sorry, Racetrack.”

“No.” He shakes his head. “You were protecting your boys.”

Spot’s arms tighten. “You are mine, too, Racer. I’m sorry it took this for me to remember that. Next time you need me, I’ll be there. I promise.”

Race snuggles in closer. “Can ya send over one of your boys official? I don’ wanna have to explain this ta everybody.”

Spot snorts. “I’ll send Bruiser tomorrow.”

“Bruiser? Buster’s kid brother?” Race laughs. “You’ll give poor Davey a heart attack.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a little short, but I was craving some Sprace hurt/comfort. Davey doesn't really get to know Race until Me + You, and I feel like I missed so many sweet moments. 
> 
> Can you spot the reference to Broken Dreams chapter 1 at the end? :D


	4. Pre-Series, Sofia Higgin's POV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The promised backstory of Cissa and Toes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have seen the preliminary sketches of the commission artwork for this series and they are absolutely gorgeous! I can't wait to be able to share the finished products with you!
> 
> I apologize for being slow to reply to comments. It's been a little crazy lately. Please know I see and cherish each and every one. I've been having some rough days lately, and re-reading all the love you guys have shown this AU is the perfect way to cheer myself up. Thank you!

Sofia Higgins loved three things. Italy, which she would never see again; her husband Marco, who was, if not a good man, not a bad one either; and the tiny child she’d named Antonio once he’d survived long enough for her to bother.

She’d feared losing the baby on their journey from Italy, but the danger in staying was greater. Marco owed money to the wrong people, and those people wouldn’t hesitate to use a woman or child as collateral.

So, the Higgins family found themselves in New York City, penniless immigrants trying to survive.

The boarding house was tiny, twelve families stuffed into six rooms. There was old Mrs. Umstadt, who never stopped coughing; young Lalee and her twin terrors; the shy couple who didn’t speak any English but made excellent baked goods; and an old man who grumbled up and down the stairs twice a day like clockwork. One day, there was no sign of the old man. Two days later, there were boxes in front of the room next to the Higgins’.

Sofia spotted a worn teddy bear peaking out from one of the boxes and hoped it wasn’t another baby. Antonio kept her up plenty already.

She carried the baby downstairs to the kitchen, setting him down in a little box made for the purpose while she tried to make some sort of dinner. Five minutes later found her cursing at the stubborn creaky oven as it struggled to warm. Behind her, Antonio cooed to himself patiently, pleasant white noise.

Which might have been why it took her so long to realize the pitch of his babbling had changed.

She spun around to see him right where she’d left him, a boy of about three leaning over the box with dark, curious eyes. Antonio was reaching for his curls where they hung just out of reach, delighted at the stranger’s attention.

The boy noticed her watching and jumped back. “Sorry.”

Antonio started to whimper, and the boy looked back at him uncertainly.

“No, no.” Sofia said softly. “I didn’t mean to startle you. You can play with him, if you want. What’s your name?”

“Francis.” The boy mumbled.

“Cis.” Antonio whimpered. “Cissaaaa.”

With one last glance at Sofia, Francis moved back to the box. “Shhh. Shhh.”

Antonio clapped his hands delightedly at the reappearance of his new friend.

Sofia smiled. “He likes you. That’s Antonio.”

“Tonio?” Francis tried. “He looked down at the baby and giggled. “Tiny toes Tonio.”

Sofia laughed. “That’s right. You want to keep him company while I finish dinner?”

Francis nodded, and that was that.

Over the next few months, Sofia began to feel like she had two children instead of one. Wherever Antonio went, Francis went too. She might have minded more if Antonio hadn’t so clearly loved the older boy. His delighted shriek of “Cissa!” would echo through the house whenever he saw the dark-haired boy. Francis, who had some trouble pronouncing the baby’s full name, had decided on ‘Toes’.

It was also becoming increasingly clear to Sofia that she was the only real parental figure in little Francis’s life. His mother, the few times Sofia had seen her, seemed painfully thin and sickly. His father spent more time with his rather dubious crop of friends than he did with his family.

Still, with Marcus working long hours, she grew to enjoy the boy’s quiet company. He was remarkably well-behaved for his age, which Sofia had eventually learned was four. He was also particularly good with Antonio, able to distract and entertain the baby for hours on end while Sofia tended to the chores.

And then, Mrs. Sullivan died in her sleep.

Francis, already quiet, grew nearly impossibly silent. He became Antonio’s quiet shadow as the now one-year-old tried to explore everything he could reach with his newfound legs. The nights where Mr. Sullivan came home late grew more frequent, his trips into the bottle deeper and deeper.

One day Francis showed up with a black eye. Sofia tried not to notice. She knew too well the types of men who would hurt their spouses and children, and however sweet Francis was she could not involve her baby in something that could get him hurt or worse.

The bruises came and went. Mr. Sullivan seemed to have long periods where he would try his best to work and bring home money and food and remember that he had a child, followed by longer periods where he drank away every penny he wasn’t earning and took out his frustrations on the one person who couldn’t fight back.

Sofia did what she could, making sure Francis got something to eat if Mr. Sullivan didn’t come home until late, bandaging wounds and soothing bruises after his drunken rages, and letting the boy sleep on the floor next to Antonio’s crib on the days Mr. Sullivan was nowhere to be found at all.

It was a tenuous existence, but it held for nearly four years. Francis turned into an eight-year-old heartbreaker with his dark, soulful looks. Antonio became a charming five-year-old with boundless energy and a penchant for mischief. The two boys were thick as thieves, never far from the other. Despite their expanded vocabularies, both boys had stuck firmly to their childhood nicknames. Thus everyone in the cramped house knew about the adventures of Cissa and Toes.

And then one day, Mr. Sullivan went too far.

Sofia woke in the middle of the night to a knocking at the door. Rolling over quietly, she hurried to see who it was before they could wake Marcus.

When she saw Francis standing there, she gasped. “What happened, child?”

Francis shook his head, biting his lip as tears stood in his eyes. He was limping and bloody, his hands curled over his chest in protection. Sofia cursed Mr. Sullivan’s very existence and gently urged the boy inside.

It took her nearly an hour to bandage the wounds. Francis was stoically silent through it all, only whimpering slightly as she wrapped the tiny ribcage.

She was just finishing up when Antonio stirred, woken by the light and movement.

“Mama?”

“Shhh, baby.” Sofia replied. “You’ll wake your father.”

Antonio turned to face them, his face adorably scrunched with sleep. “Cissa?” He asked, his face lighting up as he noticed their visitor.

“Hey Toes.” Francis whispered.

Antonio sat up, cocking his head. “You sound sad, Cissa.”

“I’m okay, Toes. Go back to sleep.”

Antonio did no such thing, slipping from the bed and padding on silent feet to stand in front of the stool Francis was sitting on. The younger child regarded his friend solemnly, taking in the obvious pain and injuries.

Francis wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“Cissa?” Antonio asked, waiting until the older boy looked up. “It’s okay. We take care of you.” He tucked his arms around Francis, careful of the bandages. “I love you, Cissa.”

Sofia focused on putting away the medical supplies, trying to ignore the sound of Francis sobbing into her son’s chest.

A month later, Francis would disappear into the night, and Sofia would never see him again. Until the day she died, she would remember the pool of light in that little room, gilding her boys in golden warmth against the cruelty of the world. 


End file.
